Logic
by Jarvy Jared
Summary: Trent Collins is a gifted intellect with incredible powers of observation. So far he has led a fairly mundane life. But when a close friend of his is met with a deadly fate, it will take his all of wits to save her. This is my first story here; something I cooked up in one of my English classes. Reviews are encouraged!


**Logic Games**

"Oh, come on, Ms. Collins! Why can't Trent come to the party with me?"

"Because he's grounded, young man! How _dare_ you make these demands to me!"

"What's he grounded for? For saving that little girl from the rabid horse?"

"He could have died! That girl was just stupid, getting close to that wild animal! My boy should have let her be!"

"Are you kidding me? Trent would rather have died than let that little girl get fatally injured!" There was a crash, and the house shook; someone had thrown some furniture around.

This went on for several minutes. Trent Collins listened from his room, smirking as the voices increased in volume. His best friend, Joseph Kennedy, and his mom were famous in town for their many arguments. Sure, they seemed violent, but each spite ended the same way: with Ms. Collins giving Joseph some herbal tea. Sometimes.

Of course, before that, there would threats of arrest, pressing charges . . . the usual.

Trent wanted to intervene, but he was enjoying this too much. Arguments were fair game in the satisfaction department of the onlooker.

"At least ask him for his opinion, Ms. Collins! Christ!"

"Don't you use that language with me, Mr. Kennedy!"

"Just do it!"

"Fine! Trent," she called, "get down here and sort your friend out!"

Trent sighed. _That ended abruptly_, he thought. _If only Joseph hadn't pulled the _personal opinion _matter._

He slowly left his room and went down the stairs, making sure to put the least amount of weight on each step by walking heel first. He hated it when the stairs creaked, so much so that when guests came over he draped rugs up and down the stairs. The brown steps below his feet shone with the afternoon light, slightly blinding him. The sun cast his shadow on the yellow wall behind him, covering the Van Gogh paintings his mother had bought way back when.

He reached the bottom, and both his mom and Joseph looked at him expectantly. He gave them a bored look.

"What?" he asked, giving off a slightly irritated vibe.

"You know what!" scolded his mom. "You are not going to that party with this ruffian!"

Joseph looked at her innocently. "Ruffian? Who, me?"

She ignored him. "You," she said, pointing at Trent, "are grounded! You will stay in this house and do nice things and not party and get drunk and sleep with girls and—"

"Whoa, Ms. Collins! I promise you, on the gravestone of my late, late, late grandfather, that this party is nothing like that!"

"That doesn't reassure me; your great-great-great grandfather was an asshole, as I've heard."

"Mother," Trent said, "I do think I have a right to go."

"Oh?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Give me one good reason why I should let you out of this house."

He looked at Joseph. "Who's going?"

"Anybody who wants to."

Trent thought for a few seconds, then looked at his mother. He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Anyone is going," he said. "I am anyone. Therefore, I should go."

Ms. Collins stared at him for a few seconds. Suddenly she turned her back to them, and crossed her arms. "Fine! You can go!"

Trent smiled slightly. Joseph said, "Thanks, Ms. Collins. You won't regret this."

She barked, "I already do!"

They hightailed it out of the house. "Logical smart aleck," she muttered under her breath.

"This party is going to be sweet, dude," Joseph said excitedly (while oddly rubbing his neck) as they walked down the street. "There's going to be a kick-ass DJ, and a lot of hot girls, and—"

"Sounds boring already," said Trent.

"What? Don't like girls?"

"No."

"Then how do you put up with all the neighborhood girls constantly flirting with you?"

"I don't."

There was a slight pause, then:

"Like guys?"

"Maybe."

"Then you're—"

"No, I'm not."

"Wait, what?"

Trent sighed impatiently. "I enjoy the company of other humans, yes, but I prefer not to be romantically involved with any unless the survival of anything depends on it."

Joseph stared at him, then cracked a smile. " You always had a noble heart."

"I'm also antisocial, paranoid, and depressed. A noble heart is _not_ what first comes to mind."

"It never is."

"Mmm. I'd prefer to keep it that way, in case anyone becomes improperly disillusioned."

They walked on for a little while, in silence. Trent observed the neighborhood, seeing the familiar faces pop up at their windows. The little kids were running around in their yards, shooting each other with water guns, as the sun beat down on them. Sprinklers opened and squirted water upwards, refracting some of the sunlight into a rainbow.

As they continued down the street, they neared an elder lady. She was out front gardening. A straw hat concealed her wiry grey hair, while navy-blue overalls with a pink top matched a ragged pair of jeans.

Trent couldn't help but stare. It wasn't a stalker kind of look; he was just a natural at observing other people. He stopped, as did Joseph, who looked at Trent carefully. Trent began to think.

_Hmm. She has her brow furrowed and her face is strained. A clear sign of frustration. She keeps bending her head down towards the garden, why? . . . Of course, she's near-sighted. Odd how she doesn't wear a pair of glasses, or even a special pair of contacts to help with that. Why doesn't she? . . . It's because she's too stubborn. Based on her outfit, she isn't rich, but she's not poor. There's one car in the driveway, could there be someone else? No, there isn't; TV isn't on, there isn't a sound in the house. However, I could be wrong. _

Trent leaned forward a bit. _. . . Aha! I was right. There's only one pair of clothes on the drying line. That certainly adds to the idea that this lady is not in good financial times; who uses clotheslines nowadays?. . . Is this why she's mad? . . . No, she is wondering why her plants have wilted. She probably thinks she gave too much water, but that is not the case. Her soil . . . it's dry, crumbly; why? . . . Aha! I have it?_

"Trouble, Ms. Vernon?" Trent spoke up abruptly.

Said Ms. Vernon jerked up and turned to the voice. She squinted her eyes. "Who's there?" she asked in a raspy, unnerving voice. Joseph shivered at the sound.

Trent remained undaunted. "I see you're having trouble with your plants. Would you like some help?"

"Who's asking?"

"Trent Collins, ma'am."

She glared, and shook her gardening shovel at him. "Oh, the Collins boy, huh? Figures. I heard you saved that little girl from the rabid whore—"

"Horse."

"Whatever. Personally, I think you should have left that girl to her own devices."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me. Pessimist."

"Would've given her some backbone. I got mine back in the war, in the WAACS, back in the 1940s—"

"Spare me the history lesson. I know it all anyway."

"Oh? Really? Who coordinated the WAACS?"

"Lieutenant Colonel Gilman C. Mudgett."

"You probably looked that up with your ethernet."

"Internet. Ethernet was the original—"

"Whatever!"

"Do you need my help or not?"

"I don't need the help of a delusional sociopath!"

"Very well." Trent walked on, but not before adding over his shoulder, "Next time you water your plants, maybe you should check to see if the water is still present; check around the three to four inch depth. Your plants didn't die from excessive watering; they died from too dry soil."

"What!" she exclaimed. "How'd you know that?"

"You don't want my help, remember?"

He and Joseph moved on. Ms. Vernon muttered a curse under her breath, and went back to poorly gardening.

"It saddens me how people can't see the difference between a sociopath and someone who is antisocial."

"Aren't sociopaths usually antisocial?"

"Yes, but I'm not a sociopath; I respect society, and I do my best to maintain it. By the way, where are we going?"

"The party."

"The party is most definitely not this way. In fact, there isn't a party, is there?"

Joseph stared at Trent. ". . . How'd you know that?"

"It was a simple matter of observing. Back at my house, when I asked who's going to the party, you said 'Anybody who wants to.' As you said this, you looked up and to the left. You are right-handed. When a right-handed person looks up and to the left, they are making something up. The vice versa is with left-handed people. Even now, your mannerisms give you away. You are rubbing the back of your neck; this is a psychological trait passed down from your childhood. As a child, if you heard something you didn't like or proved you were lying, you covered your face with your hands. Much is the same with you as an adult. You are looking down, head hanging, in shame. For what? The answer, of course, is because there is no party. You lied to get me out of the house. Why?"

Trent glared at Joseph. He wasn't angry; no, he was intrigued. Why make an elaborate attempt at getting Trent out of the house? Surely, it wasn't so that Trent could "socialize" more, something his mother and Joseph both chided him about.

Joseph stayed silent for a while. Trent softened his gaze, and spoke quietly: "Come on, Joseph; you need to tell me what's wrong."

Joseph shook, then finally spoke: "It's . . . it's Sarah."

Trent straightened. Sarah Halman? His other best friend from his childhood? "What's wrong with Sarah?" Trent asked.

"She's sick."

"Badly?"

"Worse than that. She's dying."

"What?!"

"She's been poisoned."

"By what?"

"Some sort of . . . container, I guess."

Trent placed a reassuring hand on Joseph's shoulder. "Tell me everything that happened."

_So_, Trent thought as he and Joseph briskly made their way to Sarah's house. _Here are the facts of this problem._

_ Sarah had been inside the house resting when the doorbell rang (this, of course, coming from Sarah's account, relayed to Joseph). When she opened the door, there was no one there; just a package. She had brushed it off and had thought it was just the mailman or a UPS employee. And there had been a truck moving through the neighborhood, so a delivery seemed possible._

_ When she opened the package, all she saw was a cylindrical device and a note beside it. She didn't tell the Joseph what was on the note; most likely, she forgot about it when she was poisoned. The cylinder object had letters on it. Possibly it was a puzzle. She must've solved it wrong and gotten poisoned from it; at least, that's what Joseph thinks._

_ This happened nearly a week ago. Joseph had spent the time scrambling for a cure; and came up empty handed. When he told Sarah that, she had a radical idea; if someone could solve the puzzle, perhaps a cure could be found. She had specifically requested me._

_ But, why would there be a cure in the puzzle? What makes her so sure? And why choose me over, say, her mother or even Joseph? He's as adept at solving puzzles as I am, and he was there first . . ._

There was no time to dwell any longer on this problem, as they were on Sarah's property. They moved up the driveway towards the front entrance.

"Where are her parents?" asked Trent.

"They've been out for a few weeks now."

"Where?"

"Dunno. The United Kingdom for business, China for humanitarian reasons, the Caribbean for vacation."

"They'd do all that _and_ abandon their daughter here?"

"Apparently so."

"Why didn't they come back?"

"Don't know. Sarah hasn't been able to reach them by phone or email. Presumably they're too busy working to bother."

"What a bunch of assholes."

"Yep."

"Who's home with her now?"

"Just her brother, Matt."

"Thought he was in college."

"He still is. I called him when the poison hit. He got back here as soon as he could, and has been keeping a vigil next to his sister."

Trent rang the doorbell, the dull, achy sound reverberating inside the house. A few moments later, a red-eyed young man wearing a simple white shirt and jeans opened the door.

"Hello, Matt," Trent said.

"Oh, Trent!" Matt exclaimed. "Thank God you're here!"

"I wouldn't recommend thanking Him until your sister is cured; something I _intend_ to help with. How is she?"

"Yes, well . . . you had better see for yourselves. Come in."

The Halmans were rich. Each family member owned a large estate managed by a group of servants who had more interaction with the children than the parents did. Sarah's parents were actually the least richest of the Halmans; hence, why they moved to Trent's town, Nighton. Of course, being the least prosperous, they bought the largest house in the neighborhood, roughly 2000 square feet all around.

The smell of sickness had engulfed the inside of the house. The lights were dimmed greatly; Trent assumed so to not irritate Sarah. The walls were a dull white, having been recently painted; in this light, they seemed to have not been a labor of love. A large, dark-red-and-lapis rug lay in front of the entrance. Two rows of stairs stood at each end of the entrance hall, curving towards the second floor in an upside-down elongated _u_. A candle chandelier, used only as a decoration, hung drearily from the ceiling, its fake candles' shape no more than depressed pieces of plastic. Victorian-styled arches showed the way to the kitchen, dining room, and living room, located to the front and left and right sides of the house, respectively.

"You have let this house go in the last few days," stated Trent bleakly as they travelled up the stairs.

"Well, it's mostly Mom and Dad's fault," replied Matt glumly. "They don't bother much with keeping the house comely and appealing to visitors. No maids, either; makes them feel _too_ rich. And since Sarah and I are so busy with school and work . . . well, we don't much time to fix up the house."

"That's unfortunate," said Trent. "This house would have looked rather nicer with a bit of renovating."

Matt guided the way up the stairs, Trent and Joseph behind. Matt was slouched over, his mood darkening the house even further. Joseph was much the same, but Trent remained upright and straight, focused on the task on hand. Right now he couldn't afford to be depressed; he needed to stay hopeful, for Sarah's sake.

A faint under a door indicated Sarah's room. Matt opened the door slowly, the brown-brass doorknob creaking and the dulled golden hinges groaning slightly.

It was like a makeshift hospital bay room. The olive-green curtains were drawn and the only source of light, a hotel-yellow, came from the vintage lamp on the nightstand. There was a fan in the corner, blowing, keeping the room at a stable temperature. A white closet door to the back was half open; Sarah must have changed but did not bother to close the door all the way. A bed lay in the middle of the room, with a shape under the covers. A table full of tissue boxes stood left of it, while a wooden chair stood to the right. For nightwatch, Trent assumed.

"Hope you don't mind me not knocking, sis," Matt said quietly, "but I've got some help."

A weak voice gurgled out, "No more doctors, Matt, please. You know how much the town's St. Joseph hospital staff hate me from publishing that revealing article about their not-so-ethical proceedings."

He shook his head. "Just friends. Close friends."

Sarah Halman twisted in her bed. Trent got a good look at her face. He noticed Joseph flinch slightly. Obviously, he could not get over the terrible transformation over Sarah's features.

And neither could Trent. The last time he had seen Sarah, she was an angel on Earth (as his mother described her). Death covered her. The usual glaringness of her red hair was replaced with a dull sheen. Specks of dust lay in her hair, a thin veil of dirtiness. Her face, normally creamy-white, now grey and covered with sores. Her eyes were puffy and red; the vessels in her eyes had popped. Crusty material formed under her eyelids, a crown of sickness and discomfort. Her nose was red from irritation, most likely from the tissues at her bedside. Her mouth was wet, but her skin was extremely dry; she was hydrated, but her body was not using the water effectively. A light-green dress with teal highlights poked up from under the blanket.

The poison had done its job well. Sarah wasn't the beautiful girl that the world had grown to love.

Painfully breathing through toxic-filled lungs, she spoke.

"Joseph?" she called. Then: ". . . Trent? Are you there?"

"Yes," Trent said calmly and quietly. "Yes, I'm here."

"You came!" she exclaimed weakly. "You came to help, didn't you?"

"Yes."

". . . Thank you." She let out a wheezy cough.

"Stay quiet unless I ask you a question. You need to savor your energy."

Trent peered at Matt. "Where is the package?"

"Here." Matt picked up a simple brown box, already opened. "You'll be surprised by it, I think."

"How so?"

"Just take a look."

Trent opened the box. A faint green glow emanated from within. _This_ _was the cylinder that Sarah had told Joseph about_, realized Trent. He took it out and placed it on the nightstand and took a seat in the chair. He examined the cylinder thoroughly.

It was not a typical cylinder; it was more a hexagonal prism. A black structure ran on the edges of the prism. The prism itself was cool to the touch. It gave off a green light. It had six sides, and six faces, not counting the two ends. On each face, however, were a set of letters in random order. The sets consisted of eight letters each; consequently, the black structure cut through the middle of two letters. Trent twisted the prism slightly; the top part rotated, while the bottom part remained still. He shook it lightly, and felt a slight vibration.

"That's how I answered it," said Sarah suddenly. Trent looked up. She was now sitting upright against her pillow, pointing at the prism. "Each face's letter can be twisted clockwise or counter-clockwise. That's how you answer the riddle."

"The riddle?"

"It's in the package."

Trent reexamined the package and found a small note. He narrowed his eyes in confusion as he read what was on the note:

**What is Greater than God**

**More Evil than the Devil**

**The Poor People Have It**

**The Rich People Need It**

**And if You Eat It**

**You Would Die**

"Well, the answer's obvious," said Joseph. It's " 'Nothing.' This is a common riddle."

"That's what I put," said Sarah. "Yet here I am, poisoned."

"Then it's something else?" questioned Matt. "The riddle is pretty simple. There's no other answer."

" 'When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,' " Trent said. "So stated the famous Sherlock Holmes."

"This is hardly a time to throw around some Sherlock fandom," stated Matt.

Trent took a look at the hexagonal prism once more, specifically the letters on each face. _Eight letters for each of the six faces_, he thought. _Forty eight total letters. Twenty six in the alphabet. There are repeats, then. Let's see. . . _H_,_ M, I, T, Y, U, A, _and_ N _repeat at least two times._

"Trent?" Joseph said. Trent looked up. "There's some writing on the back of the note."

"What's it say?"

" 'The Answer Lies With The Greeks.' "

Trent looked at Sarah. "Did you see that?"

She furrowed her brow. "Yes, but I had assumed that it was referring to how the Greeks became next to nothing in their declining years. After all, that was the obvious answer—" Suddenly her whole body heaved forward; she coughed, and blood splattered from her mouth. She began to shake furiously, her hands clutching at the mattress. Matt and Joseph rushed over, trying to keep her restrained.

"What's going on!" yelled Matt furiously. "What's the poison doing?!"

"The poison's going into its final stages!" answered Trent. "It's trying to achieve a total takeover of the body! Keep her down and try to keep her calm. We do not want her heart to pump the poison across her entire body."

The two men nodded, and proceeded to do as they were commanded. Trent turned back to the prism.

_What is greater than God, more evil than the devil, the poor people have it, the rich need it, and if you were to feast on it, you would die? The only answer I can think of is "nothing."_ Trent observed the repeated letters. _Maybe. . .the repetition of letters means something. Does it mean to remove these letters?_

"Come on, Sarah, stay with me!" Matt was yelling to his sister.

_Removing the repeated letters leaves me with forty letters. But none of them create an eight-letter word that sufficiently answers the riddle!_

"I can't feel her pulse!" cried Joseph. "Where's the phone? We need an ambulence, now!"

"No!" yelled Trent. "No doctors, no medicine! What we want is already in here; the cure lies in the prism!"

"How can you tell?!"

"Shut up and keep her down!"

Trent returned to his work. _Alright . . . perhaps the repeated letters are the only ones to be used. But how many of each letter is needed?_

"Oh God! She's not breathing!" screamed Matt. "She's not breathing! Oh, shit!"

"Keep her down! Stay calm!" Joseph forcefully yelled. "She's going into cardiac arrest! Her brain has shut down her breathing functionality! I'm going to perform CPR!"

_The answer lies with the Greeks . . . the answer lies with the Greeks . . . what lies with the Greeks? Myths? Gods? Democracy? Sparta?_

"She's not moving! Why isn't she moving!" The voices were indistinguishable now.

_Need to . . . think . . . Argh! What did the Greeks have that made them famous? C'mon, THINK!_

"Oh, God, oh God, oh God!"

"Can't . . . get . . . her . . . to breathe!"

_Greeks . . . Greeks . . . Greeks made . . . gods and heroes . . . in their own image? Hubris! And hubris made them . . . human . . ._

"I have it!" screamed Trent. "I have it!"

"Then put it in, dammit! My sister's dying!"

Fingers scrambling, Trent rotated the green prism's faces into one word. There was a hiss; then, the top popped off, revealing a syringe. Trent pulled it out, and ran to the bed.

"Move! Move!" he yelled. They did, and Trent injected the syringe into Sarah's neck.

"What did you give her?" questioned Matt furiously.

Trent showed him the syringe. "An answer!"

Sarah's body shook angrily, then; she began to subside. Her body gradually slowed its shaking. Joseph and Matt delicately lowered her body on the bed. They all let out a collective gasp; they hadn't realized it, but they were holding their breaths the whole time. They breathed heavily.

Finally, Joseph spoke up. "The cure for the poison . . . it was in the prism?"

Trent answered, "Yeah."

"How did you know?"

"When I examined the prism, I shook it. There was a slight vibration, indicating that one: it was hollow, and two: there was something inside. I wasn't sure if what inside was the cure, however, but I reasoned that whoever sent this poison would have also sent the cure."

"Why would they do that? Why not let her die?" Joseph asked.

"Someone wants attention. Whoever sent this wants to be noticed. They needed the riddle to be solved. They wanted to be noted for their cleverness. Why send poison to kill? Then you wouldn't get the spotlight you wanted. No, this person wants a witness to their intelligence."

"Who would do this?"

"A sociopath."

Matt piped up from the bedside, "What was the answer?"

"Humanity."

"Humanity?"

"The biggest hint came from the hint on the back of the note. 'The Answer Lies With The Greeks.' The Greek civilization was, of course, famous for their gods and heroes. Their idols, however, were created out of their own, flawed image. Hubris, if you will, was the Greeks' main driver in progressing its civilization. Historians today share a common view of the Greeks that they encourage all peoples to have; they weren't some far-off, ancient, mysterious civilization. The legends and myths they created made them human; humans who, in times of danger, created the ideal figure to worship and who they could turn to when in doubt. We do much the same today, turning to law enforcement, the government, our religions. So, with hubris in mind, 'Humanity' fulfills everything this riddle asks. Humanity is greater than God. Humanity is more evil than the Devil. The poor have Humanity. The rich need Humanity. And, philosophically, if you were to feed on your humanity, you would die. Considering all the facts, this was the most logical conclusion."

Matt stared at him. Suddenly he rushed out and enveloped Trent in a tear-stricken hug. "Oh, thank God you're smart!"

"No thanks needed," Trent said, patting the big guy on the back awkwardly. "Just doing my duty as her friend."

"You saved her life," Matt sobbed. "I can't thank you enough."

Trent and Joseph agreed to stay for a bit, in case they were needed again. Matt offered them a snack, and they accepted; it was nearing midday, and they needed some energy after the long ordeal.

Trent brought his snack into Sarah's room while Joseph and Matt tried to relax. They said it was necessary; but Trent disagreed. You only relaxed once the danger is gone or the crisis has been averted, never before or during.

Trent paused when he entered, as Sarah was awake in her bed. "Hey," he said, "you're up."

She turned to him, a small smile on her face. "Hi, Trent."

He took a seat next to her bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better. Whatever was in that syringe certainly helped."

"You remember the syringe?"

"Yeah. But I can't recall what happened before that. What happened?"

Trent took a slow and long breath before saying: "You . . . were dying."

She was quiet, then whispered: ". . . dying?"

"Yes, dying. No breathing, no pulse. Joseph had to perform CPR just to keep you alive until I could solve the riddle."  
"No wonder my chest hurts."

"And no, he didn't do it for a fondle—"

"Trent!" She playfully punched his arm, and slightly winced. "Please! No innuendos when I'm around!"

"Can't promise anything."

She laughed, and he smiled. It was good to hear her chuckle again. It seemed she hadn't laughed in such a long time.

"What was the true answer anyway?" she asked.

He relayed the same response he had given Joseph and Matt.

"Humanity, huh? I never would have thought of that."

"He expected that you wouldn't."

"How do you know that the person who did this is male?"

"The handwriting on the note. It looks meticulous, yes, almost female. However, the writing doesn't flow as smoothly as a female's would. Slightly rough edges especially on the straight-lined letters, especially the _L_. Females tend to have more ovular shapes, whereas males have more 'square' shapes."

"And he did all this, because . . . ?"

"He's a narcissist. Wants attention. Attention to his intelligence, his cleverness, I'm not sure."

"A regular Moriarty, isn't he?"

"Please, Sarah, only I can make the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle references here," he snorted.

She sighed contently. "It's good to see you again, Trent."

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Halman."

"I'm serious. It really is good."  
"I know."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. They shared Trent's snack, talking about family, friends, catching up on each other's lives.

Her breathing slowed. She eventually fell asleep.

Trent smiled, and gently slid her off his shoulder and onto the pillow. He got up and made for the kitchen, where Joseph went.

"Trent!" called Matt. "You're going to want to see this!"

He was calling from the front entrance. Trent made his way there.

As he opened the door, he saw Matt staring down. Something was in his hands. "What's up?" Trent asked.

Matt turned. "Another note," he said. He handed it to Trent.

**Well done! You've passed my first test. As I've expected, Mr. Trent Collins. Oh yes, I know exactly who you are. I've been keeping tabs on you. I'm impressed; no one ever solves that particular riddle that quickly and efficiently. Usually the poisoned victim dies before someone can find the solution. No doubt the Halmans will be very grateful.**

**No matter. I know you want to know who did this, but I'm sure you can figure out that I did. You don't know me, nor have you ever heard of me.**

**You'll be needed very soon, Mr. Collins. Another crisis will arise. Expect more trials like this one. And I hope you enjoy this little game I've orchestrated, just for the two of us.**

**Cheers!**

**Nathaniel W**

Trent's hand shook. He noticed this, and quickly pocketed it and the note.

"Trent," Matt asked. "This Nathaniel guy . . . do you know who he is?"

Trent smiled grimly. "I have no idea."

_END?_


End file.
